by Wendy Clarke
As if on cue, the front door opened and her dad stood smiling on the doorstep. He’d driven the car round. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’ She kissed Beth’s cheek, then pulled up the handle of her case, wheeling it towards the door. ‘Be good now. Get some revision done.’
Beth chewed the inside of her cheek. She so desperately wanted to tell her mum about David, about how her heart ached at the thought of his leaving, but it was too late for that. She’d never understand, and besides, her mum had that distracted look that she hated.
The car drove away and, feeling aimless, Beth went into the kitchen and stared out of the window. The backyard and the lower slopes of the fell, beyond her mum’s workshop, were in shadow, as they were for most of the day. The top, though, was bathed in sunshine, the sheep that dotted it looking like white buttons on a green quilt. It was the perfect day for walking. The perfect day for drawing – not sitting in her room surrounded by textbooks and past exam questions she hadn’t a hope of completing. Maybe if she went out for a bit, she would feel better for it. It might even wake up her sluggish brain cells.
Going to the little lobby by the front door, she shoved aside the coats, but her rucksack was nowhere to be seen. Damn. She must have left it in David’s camper. Not to worry, her old one was around somewhere; she’d have to see if she could find it.
Having a vague memory of her mum having used it, she took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door to her parents’ bedroom. She stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, and tried to think where her mum might have put it.
Kneeling beside the bed, she lifted the overhanging duvet and slid open the divan drawers. There was nothing there. Just a load of winter clothes. She rocked back on her heels, noticing that one of the wardrobe doors was open a little, the red leather strap of a handbag spilling out from its dark interior. Maybe the rucksack was with her mum’s old bags. Opening one of the doors, Beth looked inside. Her mum’s clothes hung from the rail, a jumble of colours and shapes. Below them, on the wardrobe floor, was an assortment of items: old jogging bottoms, scarves and bags.
Beth began to rummage. ‘Jesus Christ. This is worse than a jumble sale.’
At first, she couldn’t find what she was looking for, but then, right at the bottom, she caught sight of the rucksack. She pulled at the nylon straps, trying to free it from the mound of other items, but it wouldn’t budge. Pushing everything aside, she looked to see what was holding it and saw that one of the plastic clips of the waist strap had got caught between two of the floor boards.
Easing one to the side, Beth noticed that, unlike the others, this board wasn’t fixed down and the holes, where the nails should have been, were empty. A picture came to her. Her mum was sitting on the floor, her dad’s T-shirt in her hand and the wardrobe door standing open behind her. Its contents had been pushed to one side and her mum had looked flustered. Beth hadn’t paid too much attention to what had been going on then, but now, she wondered what it was her mum had been doing.
Even though she knew there was no one else in the house, Beth glanced at the door to make sure she wasn’t being watched. Then, lifting the loose board, she reached forward and felt around with her hand until she met with something. It felt like a large envelope. Closing her fingers around it, she pulled it out.
The envelope was large, brown… ordinary-looking. Beth sat cross-legged and stared at it. There was nothing written on the front and, from the weight of it, it obviously contained several items. Reaching an arm back into the wardrobe, she felt around to see if there was anything else hidden there, but there wasn’t.
Beth’s palms had become sweaty and she wiped them on her jeans. There was something about her find that bothered her. For her mum to go to the trouble of hiding it, the envelope must contain something important. Something she didn’t want either Beth or her dad to see. It should have been exciting, but it wasn’t. Wasn’t there a saying, what is seen can never be unseen?
Maybe she should just put it back. Pretend she hadn’t found it. But she knew that if she did that, she would always wonder and one day, days or weeks from now, she would go to the hiding place again and look inside.
Inhaling deeply, she lifted the flap of the envelope and tipped the contents out onto the floor. At first, it looked boring – just another envelope, narrower than the first, and a few old photographs. But, when she picked up the top one and studied it, she felt her skin grow cold.
Her immediate thought was that it was a photograph of herself: the dark hair and the high cheekbones were the same. When she looked closer, though, she realised it wasn’t. This woman was older, her eyes a bright blue – nothing like Beth’s slate grey. She looked familiar yet odd at the same time, like an identikit picture the police had cobbled together in a hurry. One you know is wrong.
There was a resemblance to her mum as well. Only her hair was blonde. Could this be a relative Beth had never met or even heard of? An echo of a memory stirred. Dark hair falling across her face and the touch of warm lips on her cheek. A moon and stars rotating above her head. Sleep tight, darling.
She shivered, uncertain whether she wanted to look at any more. In the end, curiosity overcame her and she looked at the next photograph. The same woman was standing with an older couple, a baby in her arms. She was looking down at the child as though it was the most precious thing she had seen. The final photo was of a different baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Putting the photographs to one side, Beth picked up the narrow envelope. Birth Certificate was written on the front.
Before she could chicken out, she tipped the folded page into her lap and opened it. The baby was a girl. Lily. She spoke the name aloud. It was pretty, the two syllables forming in a way that was familiar to her. She looked at the date of birth. August 3rd 2001. This child was close in age to her – born four months earlier. Her father was someone called Gareth Curtess and her mother’s name was Ria. Who were these people?
She was just going to slip the certificate back into the envelope, when she saw that there was another in there. The mystery was deepening. Drawing it out, Beth smoothed the page with the flat of her hand and read the name. This time it was a boy, Samuel Brian.
Reaching into her back pocket, Beth took out her phone. Holding it above each of the photographs, she captured them on the screen. She did the same for the birth certificates. When she’d finished, she slid everything into the envelope and put it back in its hiding place, replacing the wooden floorboard and moving the bags and scarves to cover it once more.
She desperately wanted to talk to David. To find out what he thought of all this. Should she speak to her dad about it when he got home? Something told her she shouldn’t. She would wait until her mum got back and confront her. She’d make her tell her the truth and then maybe she’d understand why she’d been acting so strangely these last few months.
Picking up the rucksack, Beth went back to her room and pushed her drawing book, some pencils and a waterproof into it. There was no point in dwelling on it now. She’d see if David wanted to go with her to the cairn. It would help her to take her mind off it.
But, as she let herself out of the door, she couldn’t get the picture of the young woman with the dark hair out of her head. She’d known this woman – she knew she had – but when and where, she couldn’t say.
Thirty-Seven
Leona
It’s early morning, three days after Colin came to see me, and a fine drizzle of rain is in the air. I’m pleased, as my umbrella serves as a barrier between me and the rest of the world. Last night, I slept little – the cheap hotel I checked into reminded me of the one Beth and I stayed in all those years ago. Eventually, I gave up and switched on the bedside lamp, turning over in my head the things I needed to say to my mum. Knowing it could be the last time I saw her. Knowing I had to let her know I hadn’t just abandoned her. But, try as I might, nothing would come.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out. It’s a message from Scott:
‘Hope you’re enjoying yourself. We’re all good here.’
I stare at it, undecided as to whether I should answer him or not. If I do, it will be just another lie, but if I don’t, would it make things any better? Swallowing my guilt, I write the reply as quickly as possible. I’m enjoying the course and will tell him more when I get home. As I press send, an awful thought crosses my mind. What if Scott doesn’t believe me? What if he thinks…? But even as I’m questioning myself, I know it isn’t likely. Scott has always trusted me, just like I’ve always trusted him.
Remembering how I’d spent the previous afternoon ringing all the care homes within fifteen miles of my father’s home until I’d found the right one, I check the map on my phone and see that it’s not far now. The road, with Mum’s care home in, should be the next one on the left. As I turn the corner, the butterflies that have been in my stomach since I left Church Langdon resume their frantic wing-beat and I’m afraid I might be sick. Taking a deep breath, I continue walking. Counting the paving slabs. Trying not to think about what I might find when I get there.
And then I see it. A Victorian red-bricked building on the corner of the road. Avonleigh House is printed on a board just inside the low wall that encloses the home and the small car park to the side. As I get nearer, my pace quickens. There’s no reason for anyone to know I’m here, but my heart is jumping in my chest regardless. The gate’s open and, with a quick look up and down the road, I walk up the gravel drive to the front door, keeping my head down.
I press the bell and wait. Eventually, a voice comes over the intercom and I tell her that I’m here to see Pamela Jackson. There’s a loud buzz and the door clicks open to show a reception area with chairs along the sides of the room. Putting down my umbrella and giving it a shake, I step inside. A receptionist is sitting behind a glass-panelled desk and I go up to her, waiting for her to finish on the telephone, trying to ignore the sweet pine smell of disinfectant that lingers in the air. There’s no one else in the waiting area and I’m relieved. The fewer people who see me, the better.
The receptionist finishes her call. She writes something on a notepad, then looks up. As her eyes take in my make-up-less face, my fair hair scraped back into a ponytail and my plain T-shirt, I feel my scalp prickle. Although I know it’s ridiculous, I can’t help thinking that, by some sixth sense, she knows what I’ve done. That here, in front of her, is a woman who abandoned her mother.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to visit Pamela Jackson,’ I repeat.
‘And you are?’
I hesitate. ‘I’m Nicky… her niece. I rang yesterday.’
‘They’ll be bringing her down for her lunch in half an hour or so. Can it wait until then?’
I glance at the clock on the wall. ‘Lunch? But it’s only eleven.’
The woman shrugs. ‘Some of them get agitated if they don’t get their food. We try and get them all to come down to the dining room, but we get some refusers.’ She leans forward. ‘It’s easier to leave those ones.’
‘These are people you’re talking about.’
Although I haven’t said it loudly, the woman is staring at me and I realise, straight away, my mistake. I need to be more careful. This woman stands between me and my mum and, besides, I can’t afford to make a scene.
With great effort, I smile. ‘I’m sorry. I understand how difficult it must be for you here. If you can just tell me where my aunt is, I’ll see her before she comes down. I don’t intend to stay long.’
She takes her glasses from where they rest on her grey head and settles them on her nose. ‘No. Nobody ever does. It’s number seventeen. Second floor. The lift’s over there if you want it, or you can take the stairs. Oh, and make sure you sign the visitors’ book before you go up.’
I look over to the table she’s indicating, where a book lies open, a pen in a holder next to it. Going over, I see that today’s date has been written at the top of the page. There’s only one name under it and my heart clenches as I realise it’s my dad’s. His writing is large and clumsy, bringing back memories of birthday cards and Christmas present labels from my childhood. To survive, these last years, I’ve had to shut out all memories of my parents, but, as I see his signature, my dad’s dear face comes back to me as clearly as if he was in the room. His dark wiry hair, his large nose and the twinkle in his eyes that tells me he loves me. I work it out: he will be nearing seventy now. It’s hard to believe.
A turn of the page shows me that Dad’s been coming in every day since Mum was admitted. Sometimes twice or three times. He promised to love her in sickness and in health and, it’s clear, he’s kept that promise.
And then I see another name. One that surprises me more. Marie Jacobs.
Leo! The thought that my best friend has found it in her heart to visit my mum makes me want to weep. For twelve years, I’ve not seen her. Known nothing about her life. Did she and Adam get married? Did they adopt, like they said they wanted to? So many things cut from my life. So many things I’ve missed since I’ve been Leona.
Leo has visited the last two Sundays, in the evening. It’s Sunday today. Might she come again? Taking a notebook from my handbag, I tear out a page and, with a quick glance at the receptionist, scrawl a message. No address, no telephone number – nothing that can give me away. Just that I miss her. I fold it and write Leo’s name on the front, then shove it in my pocket before turning to the visitors’ book and pretending to sign it. After I’ve done this, I take the lift to the second floor.
When the metal doors slide open, the first thing I see is a drugs trolley parked up against the wall. I’m in a corridor with a series of doors on either side. Most of them are open, the nearest one allowing me a glimpse of a narrow room with a bed at one end – a small table and red leather tub chair at the other. An elderly woman is sitting on the bed in her nightdress, her white legs spindle-thin. Above her, on the wall, is a noticeboard covered in photographs. Some are black and white, one showing a young woman in a full skirt, another a man in army uniform. Others are more recent: a baby in a bouncer and a school photograph of two boys, one gap-toothed.
As I watch, a young dark-haired nurse places a cardboard cup containing tablets into the woman’s hand. ‘There you are, Jane. Swallow these down for me.’
She hands the woman a plastic tumbler of water and I can’t take my eyes from it, remembering the feel of a pill on my tongue; the exaggerated swallow as the water washes it down to do its job. I hear a baby cry and, although I know it’s only my imagination playing tricks, I feel again the love but also the craving for sleep. The oblivion that can only be found in a foil blister.
As the nurse takes the cup from the woman and turns back, she sees me and her eyebrows rise in surprise.
‘Are you lost?’ Her voice is kind, reminding me of one of my teachers in primary school.
I drag my eyes away from the woman’s hand as she tosses the tablets into her mouth. ‘I’ve come to see my aunt. She’s in room seventeen.’
The girl smiles. ‘That will be Pam. She’s a sweetheart. I’ll show you where she is, if you like.’
At her reassuring words, I feel the weight that has been on my shoulders since I heard of Mum’s diagnosis lift a little. ‘That’s kind of you. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t.’ My throat thickens and I swallow. I need to pull myself together. It isn’t as if I’m a stranger to changing names. ‘It’s Nicky.’
With a pat of the woman’s hand, the girl gets up from the edge of the bed and comes out into the corridor.
‘I’ll be back in a minute to take you to lunch, Jane,’ she calls back. ‘Shepherd’s pie today. Your favourite.’ She winks at me and locks the drugs trolley. ‘She says everything’s her favourite. Maybe it was once, who knows.’
I follow her along the corridor to a door at the end, noticing the pictures on the walls as we pass by. They are all of flowers. Bright. Garish. Do the
residents of Avonleigh House even notice them? I hope so.
The dark-haired girl knocks on the door. When there’s no answer, she knocks again, then opens it, pushing her head around the door. ‘Pamela. There’s someone to see you. Your niece, Nicky.’ She steps aside to let me in. ‘Lovely surprise, eh?’
I step forward but go no further than the doorway, scared that I might break down in front of the girl who is now collecting cups from the bedside table. Mum stands at the window, looking out onto the road. She’s thinner than when I last saw her, her hair still dyed blonde but a different shade to before. More brassy. The clothes she’s wearing are not ones I recognise, but why would I, when the last time I saw her was twelve years ago?
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
I wait until the girl has closed the door behind her, then cross the room. Mum doesn’t look at me. Her face is passive, the warmth and the life missing from it. Reaching out, I take her hand, tears pooling in my eyes. Her fingers feel frail, the bones fine beneath the skin, and I feel as though I might drown in my guilt.
‘Mum? It’s me, Ria.’
Slowly, my mother turns her head. ‘Ria?’
‘Yes, Mum. Your daughter.’
With a small shake of the head, she turns back to the window. ‘I haven’t got a daughter.’
The words are a dagger to my heart. ‘You have, Mum. I’m here, standing right next to you.’
‘Go away.’ Her voice is flat. ‘I said I haven’t got a daughter.’
A wave of sorrow sweeps over me, leaving me breathless. ‘Please don’t say that, Mum.’
But it’s as if she’s moved on to another place inside her head. ‘Where’s Brian? Tell him he’s going to be late if he’s going to take me to the dance.’
I lead her gently to the bed and sit down next to her. Unzipping my bag, I take out one of the photographs I keep hidden in my wardrobe and which I’d tucked into the side pocket the evening Colin came to see me. Thankful I’d anticipated that Mum might not recognise a daughter who looks so different. A young woman with hair as blonde as Beth’s once was.